


A Case of Mistaken Identity

by love2imagine



Category: White Collar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:35:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/love2imagine/pseuds/love2imagine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is one of the turning points my series have been working towards. Peter tries to understand his feelings and actions with respect to Neal. Definitely could be set as part of the Out of this World Series, after chapter 23 of Out of Breath, or a once-off. I wanted to find some reasonable answers to the ongoing question in the fandom - what the heck happened in Season 5? Hope you find it explains some things to your satisfaction.</p><p>White Collar milieu and characters created by Jeff Eastin and do not belong to me. Claire is mine! Story, mistakes, mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Mistaken Identity

 

 

 

 

 

Peter walked down the uneven path that ran next to the house. He found the side door just where he’d been told it would be, and there, as explained, was a smiling ceramic toad of dubious beauty. Concealed deep in the mouth of the door-stop toad was a key that unlocked the door. Trying to be quiet, he unlocked the door, replaced the key and went through the door, closing it after him and clicking the lock.

 

He found himself in a small room, clean and fresh, not much like the other waiting rooms he’d visited - enough, recently that he felt as though he qualified as some sort of expert! There was a compact lounge suite in pale blue, a non-offensive rug on the floor, some books in a book-case, attractive prints of landscapes on the walls. A small vase of real flowers sat on a coffee table completely devoid of magazines! It looked much more like a home than a clinical setting except for the dearth of personal touches: no photos, ornaments, trophies or anything of that nature.

 

It didn’t smell clinical, either. It smelled like vanilla, authentic vanilla, not those awful candles from before. It reminded him of his home, his mother baking cakes and cookies on a Saturday afternoon.

 

_Before we were all so scared of eating sugar and eggs and everything that made our childhoods fun! Scraping out the bowl with the side of my finger…I must have been about three!_

 

He took a seat in a comfortable chair facing the little garden where a birdbath was being enthusiastically used by a robin. There wouldn’t be much water left for any other birds, he was so vigorous! And he looked so jubilant as he rose up, the water sleeting off his head, flapping his wings!

 

_I wish I could feel like that! That’s how I want to feel…Like a bathing robin on a sunny late-autumn afternoon and myself when I was three! Only with El and my job now. I have felt…wrong…sad…for so long._

 

Peter wasn’t at all sure about staying. This was just a first interview, he decided. Just to feel the place out. Just to feel out ‘Claire’. That’s what she called herself! Claire. Just Claire, like a rock star or something! Not confidence-building.

 

Peter was just imagining a woman with beads and her hair in two braids…sort of an aging hippy, good-hearted, with shelves of books on crop circles and alien abduction – _oh! Well, nothing wrong with that! -_ crop circles, pyramids and ley lines and – and – what was that called? Water dividing? With the willow sticks? Divining, that was it!

 

There were sounds from beyond the wall behind him and Peter stood up…but, by just a second or two, missed his chance to leave graciously, before he’d been seen. A man a decade older than Peter walked out, straightening his jacket. Peter, given to noticing things at any time and now hyper-sensitive, saw that the man’s eyes were red and he looked shattered but calm and relieved, if that was even a possible combination!

 

“So – next week, same time, Bob?”

 

“Thank you, Claire! I can’t tell you how much that means to me!”

 

The woman was not an elderly hippy. She looked, to Peter’s pessimistic eye, about eighteen, with pale blonde hair smartly coiffed and a neat charcoal wool suit over a baby-pink blouse. She had a neat, slender figure and her hands were well-kept, with clear nail-polish.

 

“It’s a pleasure, Bob.

         “Hugs?” she held out her arms and he gave her a bear-hug and she hugged back with obvious sincerity.

 

Peter really wanted to run! He wasn’t into hugging, except his wife! He didn’t mind touching shoulders, patting hands, but not hugging girls young enough to be his daughter!

 

Bob went out, the door closed and locked, and Claire turned to Peter. “Mr. Burke?”

 

“Yes, I’m Peter Burke.”

 

“I’m Claire. Do come through.”

 

Feeling trapped – but he could always just walk out, what was she going to do to him? Him with his Quantico training and his badge? All hundred and twenty pounds of her! – he followed her down a blue-and-white passage with prints of seascapes on the walls and into a small room that was probably designed to be used as a bedroom. In it was a desk, set back near the window, opposite the door, and two leather chairs facing each other, occasional tables next to each. To one side was a window with fine white linen curtains drawn over it, letting in plenty of light but providing privacy.

 

Claire waved him into the chair furthest away from the door. Peter smiled to himself. Most people feel more secure if their backs are not to a window or door!

 

He sat, gingerly, on the edge of a chair meant to embrace and soothe. “I don’t know if – I’m probably not in the right place…”

 

Claire sat down opposite him. He was suddenly aware that this cute little blonde had very intense brown eyes. She looked at him as though she was looking through him.

 

“May I call you Peter?” she said, quietly.

 

“Yes – yes, of course!”

 

“May I make a guess, Peter?”

 

Peter made some movement that to him was an aborted ‘no!’, but she went on as though he’d nodded enthusiastically, “I am your therapist of last resort. You have spoken to psychologists, perhaps even psychiatrists. Probably more than one of each…especially the psychologists. You have spoken about many things, stirred up many memories. You have not found relief.

........"You have not found answers. Somehow – perhaps someone gave you my name, perhaps gave a glowing recommendation.

         “You need answers. You have received no real help. Yet here you sit like a nervous bird on a twig, ready to fly away. Because you have no idea how I do what I do, you have no wish to know how I do what I do! It’s creepy and anyway, it won’t work on you because you’re an FBI agent.”

 

Peter gazed at her, his mouth open. He managed, “How did you know I was an agent?”

 

“I’m not psychic. But you’re obviously a plain-clothes cop – your jacket is old enough to be permanently shaped by a weapon at your shoulder. Your hand drifts towards it, because you are not carrying today and your shoulder feels naked, too light. Your level of confidence – despite your present apprehension – made me guess Bureau.

         “Should I go on?”

 

Peter sat back, impressed despite himself. “How do you do what you do? The therapy, not the deductions.”

 

“You know that your subconscious retains most memories? Not all, certain physical trauma and drugs can damage the memories, but under normal circumstances, they are all there.”

 

“I’ve heard that.”

 

“The Bureau uses hypnotists under specific circumstances.”

 

“Only ones with medical or similar training.”

 

“Which I do not have.” She grinned.

 

“Which you do not have.”

 

“So, Peter Burke, why do you not go to a psychiatrist or psychologist trained in the use of hypnosis?”

 

He hesitated, then told her the truth, “I would hate to go to someone who might have worked, or might in the future work for the Bureau.”

 

“One very good reason. You would hate it to get out that you went to a voodoo witchdoctor psychic weirdo!” She was smiling gently at him.

 

“I don’t feel like that about it! I just don’t understand it.”

 

“I don’t really understand colour television, but I’m not opposed to using one!”

 

“Why – why do you not have some other degree.”

 

“I could. If I wanted to work for Law Enforcement, for example. But I don’t. I really don’t want to find out what colour jacket the bank robber was wearing. I like helping people make their lives better. And I know people who have done both, and I am not saying everyone, but many of them become psychiatrists – or whatever - using hypnosis in particular, limited situations.

         “They feel that this is an add-on, like a particular drug. They perhaps haven’t explored all it can do. Otherwise, I believe, they would use it more. I have seen many people helped tremendously.”

 

Peter sat and thought a moment. “I want answers.”

 

“I believe I can help, Peter. Now, what questions do you have, first, for me, about what I do? This is all about trust. You wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t trust my voice on the telephone!”

 

“All about trust…yes. Well, Claire, what do most people come to you for?”

 

“That’s a question! Phobias, that’s a big one. Sexual abuse – buried memories - ”

 

“But that’s an area the Bureau doesn’t like anyone using this for. Because - ”

 

“Because it is so easy to plant false memories, or more usually, enhance some aspects of memories. I agree, and I am as careful as I know how. The difference is, Peter, I make it clear at the outset that I am not going to help them recover memories if they wish revenge…if they wish to ‘go after’ their abuser. I think many people are accused unjustly and it is impossible to disprove, so their lives are ruined.

         “The only time I would ever vary from my rule is if there is another potential victim in the picture, but often the abuser is elderly or deceased by the time the victim – or possible victim – comes to me. And if there was another potential victim, I would not work with the client at all, because their testimony might be tainted, according to law enforcement, useless at trial. I encourage them to go to – someone like yourself.

         “I want people to find peace and forgive their abuser. Abusers aren’t born. They are made and, _you_ know, have been victims themselves almost without exception. I am not condoning what they do, they should seek help – but I want the victim to find peace and break the cycle. To move along.”

 

Claire waited to see if Peter would comment, and when he didn’t, she went on, “There are also things like pain reduction, anaesthesia for dental and other procedures, general stress reduction, assertion, sleep, things like that.

         “And every now and then someone comes because they remember being abducted by aliens – or think they do! Or recurring dreams that bother them. Interesting stuff!”

 

Peter literally jumped. How could she know that…no, she didn’t. Lucky guess!

 

“Oh, and past life regression – that’s been a big one for a long while!” She smiled.

 

“Past life – you believe in reincarnation?” Now Peter sounded disgusted, and felt for his car keys.

 

Out. Of. Here.

 

Claire was not phased. “People give me details and complicated scenarios they believe are from past lives. Does that convince me that we’ve lived before? No. It does convince me that either we have lived before and that something in that person’s previous life caused them trauma and trouble in this one – or – that the mind is brilliant at creating a fantasy scenario that will help the person deal with their traumas and problems, for they seem to gain a great deal of help from these purported ‘past lives’.”

 

Peter looked at her with increased respect. Then he asked, “Can anyone be hypnotised?”

 

“Almost anyone who can concentrate for long enough. Small children have a problem there, and some people with mental issues. I don’t work with people using drugs unless they are clean at the time and want to break the addiction – which is usually linked to other problems, you understand. The drugs are self-medication, perhaps a long-term suicide attempt in some cases.

         “Now if you are talking about stage hypnosis, people barking like dogs or eating onions and thinking they are apples, that sort of thing – you need a certain type of person. Very suggestible: the perfect subject, some call them. I have never seen a hypnotist of that type use everyone, they ‘test’ the ones that volunteer and choose the very suggestible ones - and preferably the ones that put lampshades on their heads at parties without the excuse of hypnosis! I have heard tell of people who can hypnotise anyone at their first sitting. I have never seen it done.”

 

“So you can’t make Joe Average go and kill someone you want to get rid of?”

 

She laughed, a pretty laugh and said, “There have been times I wished I could – no, of course not!” Then she sobered completely – it spread through her body, settled in her muscles. “That is why, Agent Burke, governments have resorted to projects like MK Ultra, and used traumatised babies in the end, caused personality splitting. It is quite disgusting.” She breathed a moment, obviously angry.

 

Then she went on, “Because most of us have a filter – what we will and will not do. Some people can, with years of work, be made to think they are doing the world a huge service by killing this person, in your example. It is not usually worth it, time-wise and extremely unreliable…hence, as I said, your government’s programmes. Many of the adult test subjects committed suicide.”

 

“I do not believe that ever happened.”

 

“Your belief or disbelief does not change the facts,” she said, and Peter was strongly reminded of Mozzie – who had been right in many cases, once Peter had looked into them.

 

“I don’t blame you, Peter. It is hard to believe. But there are crazy people everywhere. Just because they have a badge or a desk with a fancy plaque, end up with a government pension does not make them ethical.”

 

“That is true enough. So - I could be hypnotised?”

 

“Without a doubt, if you wanted to be, and I believe you want to be – to find out your answers. You are not on any drugs, are you?”

 

“Drugs?”

 

“ _Any_ drugs! I am not asking you if you are on street drugs, just – any drugs?”

 

“No. Nothing. And – if I go ahead – will it change me?”

 

“Ah – Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?” she smiled a little, again. “Most people fear that, you know – they fear that getting rid even of a terrible, debilitating phobia will somehow make them less of who they thought they were! I believe you will find it will make you more of yourself!”

 

Peter sat and thought for a few moments. Claire sat and waited. She was not like the pictures he’d conjured up. To his not completely inexperienced eye, she seemed genuine, in that she genuinely thought she could help him. She was also calm and centred, which made him feel more able to trust her. And he was strong-willed and strong-minded, a trained agent. She wouldn’t be able to confuse or control _him!_

“Can we give it a try?”

 

“Surely. Fill out these questionnaires, would you? Just circle the yes or no – the first thought that comes into your mind. Obviously, there is no right or wrong, this is just to see how you learn.”

 

She handed him a clip-board with a pen, got up and went to her desk and did some paperwork. He looked down. It wanted his first name, his telephone number, his profession, and again asked whether he was on drugs. At the bottom, it had spaces for his authorisation to work with him, his signature and a date.

         Between there were fifty yes/no questions. He went through them. They made no sense to him, were often repeated in different words – questions such as ‘do you prefer novels or non-fiction books?’ and ‘have you ever been prone to sleep-walking?’

 

“Some of these seem to be repeats?” he asked.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she told him without looking up. “Just do your best to answer them accurately.”

 

Peter sighed and, without putting much confidence in this list of silly questions, went through them as quickly as possible.

 

“I want your signature on the bottom line, along with the date…giving me permission to work with you.” She was standing by his shoulder.

 

“In for a penny…” He signed.

 

“Okay, Peter…” she took the clipboard. She put a glass of water next to him and a box of tissues.

 

“Not going to need those.”

 

“It’s a physiological response. We call it red-eye. Everyone, even big badass Agent-men,” she grinned. He thought he heard Mozzie, again! “No shame, Peter.”

 

“Now, tell me a little…firstly, what would you like me to help you with…what, if you like, is your problem, your unanswered question.”

 

Peter swallowed. _Don’t give her too much information. See how good she is._ “I had a problem with a …work colleague. I reacted uncharacteristically and it ended badly. I’d like to know why.”

 

“Male or female?”

 

“Oh, not like that!” Peter was horrified.

 

“Like what, Peter?”

 

“It wasn’t – I didn’t have an affair or something.”

 

She grinned a little, writing on the back of his questionnaire.

 

“What are you writing?” he demanded.

 

“Secrets! And in code! No-one uses my notes against anyone,” she said with a wink, and he wondered if he should ask if she had a father, a balding short man with an incredible memory and a conspiracy for every occasion…possibly an uncle..?

 

“No, it wasn’t like that. I over-reacted to anything he did, that’s all. I ruined our working relationship. And honestly, I have never done that with anyone before. And I don’t know why I did it.”

 

“Regrets.”

 

“Yes. I ruined something that should have been good for both of us. Started out good for both of us.”

 

“How was your relationship with your father?”

 

“Good! He was a good father, little strict, honest, hard-working. I respected him tremendously.”

 

“Mother?”

 

“We had a good family, little Leave-it-to-Beaverish, kind of perfect.”

 

"Siblings?"

 

"None."

 

She smiled at him. “Let’s see if we can get you under, Peter. Are you comfortable? Tie not too tight, belt okay?”

 

“Yes. I’m comfortable…well, as comfortable as I’m going to be, about to be hypnotised, Claire!”

 

“Can you just close your eyes for me, Peter? Just be aware of your breathing. Don’t try and change it, just be aware of it.”

 

Peter shifted a bit in the chair, took a deep breath, felt his body relax a little.

 

“Now, keep your eyes closed. Completely closed. You are safe, no-one will find you here. This is the time when I steal your wallet and you will never remember it…”

 

Peter’s eyes opened and he saw she was laughing. “Come on, Peter! This is fun, relaxing, remember?”

 

He grinned back and closed his eyes again. She took him through some simple breathing exercises, visualisations of various rooms with definite objects…relaxed his muscles, one area at a time. It felt good.

 

“You will hear other sounds, but I want you to only respond to my voice. Other sounds...the tick of the clock, the traffic noises, sometimes a siren will sound nearly – those you will not consciously notice, but all will help you to go deeper into a calm, peaceful state where we will find your answers. Only if there is an emergency will you respond quite normally by being wide awake and taking the correct action.

“I want you to realise this, Peter. You are in charge. You have a goal, a destination. I am here as a guide. That is all. You and I have a contract. But you come from a different background, have different meanings to some words, or some words have stronger meanings for you than for me. But your inner self knows…your inner, higher self knows what is best for you.

         “So this is what I want you to remember: if I say something that breaks our contract, please be wide awake and walk out of the door. If I say something that feels wrong to you, because of your own interpretation of a word, for example, allow your inner self to translate it to the best word possible for you. We are here today for you. To get you your answers and ease that stress and regret.”

 

Peter found himself really resting deeply. It felt _so_ good. He was usually alert for danger, for odd happenings. For some reason, here, he felt safe and able to relax…

 

She was counting…numbers…it felt good….

 

“Five!”

 

Peter started, opened his eyes. She said, “I’m coming close to you, Peter,” and she did, holding out the box of tissues. He grabbed a few and wiped his eyes.

 

“What – what happened. Why did we stop?”

 

“We didn’t stop exactly.” Claire waved a slight hand at the clock and he saw that three-quarters of an hour had passed.

 

He blinked up at her, astounded. ‘You changed the clock!”

 

She smiled. “No. I didn’t. Check your watch.”

 

“But – but I was listening to you count and then you said ‘five’ and I – I don’t understand.”

 

“You’re a good subject,” she said. “It worked well. Now I need to ask you…who’s Neal?”

 

The room hummed with silence. Outside somewhere a dog barked, someone yelled something in the distance, but Peter felt the silence was like concrete hardening around him.

 

It took a huge effort to clear his throat and say, “That was the colleague I had problems with. With whom, I should say, I made problems. Not that he didn’t contribute, but I am normally good with people. Good at building a team, good at building trust.”

 

“So we’re getting somewhere. I’m going to take you back down, even deeper this time. We’re going to clear this up for you, Peter.”

 

Peter wiped his eyes again. This was silly!

 

“This was important to you, Peter. If your body thinks it’s worth tears, honour that.”

 

He looked at her, his respect rising again. She looked so very young, too young to be experienced…but Neal had always looked young…of course, he might be twenty, for all anyone knew for sure! Had they ever been completely sure of anything, with Neal? Peter blew his nose and threw the tissue into the little bin set there for the purpose.

 

“Let’s go down again, Peter. Deeper this time.

..........“Oh, what does orange mean to you? Your body reacted each time I said it…I use the spectrum and numbers to deepen your concentration, but I’ll skip from red to yellow for you!”

 

Peter made a face. “I hate orange. Prison, that’s what it means to me.”

 

“You visit people in prison often?”

 

“No, sometimes during the course of an investigation I need to speak to an inmate…but I met Neal when he was in prison, and I also was remanded in custody for a crime I didn’t commit. I was cleared, but that time is a far from a pleasant memory for me.”

 

She looked at him. “You seem inordinately concerned about this work partnership that went wrong, Peter.”

 

Peter swallowed. “It is because I usually am good with people. People usually like me. This man, Neal, he liked me. We enjoyed each other’s company. We worked together very well. He came to trust me. And then – something happened. He did some things I didn’t like, but I over-reacted - badly - and honestly, Claire, I can’t think why.

..........“It wasn’t as though I didn’t know him, who he was, of what he was capable…and though I wouldn’t have told him to do what he did, he sincerely thought he was helping me. I tore our friendship, our trust, apart. It was never the same after that. He told me what he thought of me, much later, and we’ve never been close again. I hated the resentment in his voice. I never want to hear that again, do that again.”

 

“So he wasn’t just a teammate, but a friend.”

 

“Yes. He was a friend. A very good friend. And then he wasn’t. I’ve lost him for good. We’re polite, when we have to meet, you know? We have mutual friends. But – he and I sort of loved each other. Just enjoyed being together. Made each other laugh.”

 

“I see. When did this relationship start to go wrong?”

 

“Um – there were often disagreements, you know, we were very different people, but it really went off the rails…well, after I came back from prison.”

 

“Mmm. Well, let us see what we can find, shall we?”

 

 

 

When Peter heard her say, “Five” the next time, he remembered everything. He sat, put his hands to his face and sobbed without shame or control for a good five minutes before he could care enough to try and stop. It took more than another five minutes to actually get control. Claire waited patiently, relaxed, composed.

 

“Sorry!” he said, eventually.

 

“For what? You think what you have remembered doesn’t demand tears? If you do not cry now, your tears will turn inward and corrode you, Peter.”

 

“They already did, didn’t they?”

 

She just smiled. Then she shook her hair and said, “Now you can start to heal. You did not consciously choose to do wrong things, Peter. You’d be surprised at how few people do! But you were working with old software programmes…well, like trying to run the newest Photoshop on Windows 98! Bits seem to work, perhaps, but if you don’t know what it’s supposed to do, you don’t know how badly it’s working! And it will give you incorrect information, cause you to take wrong roads, make wrong decisions. They seem right, but the data you’re working from is inaccurate, biased.

...........“You need feel no shame, Peter.”

 

They sat and spoke together of the things Peter had remembered. He was bewildered at how mixed up his thinking had been but she led him through what had happened and showed him how things linked together, small beginnings leading to ever larger results that eventually resulted in a perfectly destructive storm. When he saw the evidence laid out and a good interpretation offered, he knew – as he knew it with a case, even before the definitive evidence was all in – that the solution, the analysis was accurate. A little ‘aha’ on the inside.

 

After another few minutes, Peter looked around, trying to find something to stand on, emotionally, to get a grip on the Here and Now. He took refuge in accounting, his strength. He said, casually, “This is your home? You get a write-off for using this as your office, your other room as your waiting room?”

 

“I probably could,” she said, smiling gently at him.

 

“You only take cash, am I right?” Peter asked, smiling a little. “No receipts?” _Mozzie again!_

 

She nodded.

 

“So you pay no income tax?”

 

“Some people came round once, to ask questions.” She shrugged vaguely.

 

“And?” Peter prompted, finding himself amused.

 

“Peter, it’s _amazing_ how few people want to speak at length with me when they hear I am a hypnotist, and I look at them in a particular, penetrating way.” She said it as mildly as possible, yet somehow Peter could quite imagine how she’d looked at those poor people sent to grill her, and how quickly they might have left!

 

He paid her, feeling astonishment. He had thought her fees were high, and they couldn’t be recovered from medical plans, but he had wasted many, many hours and his own money on other ‘professionals’ and all they had done was irritate him. He had spent a little over two hours with her and knew that she had helped him.

 

“Do I come back?” he asked, as they walked through to the waiting room.

 

“If you like. If something continues to bother you, or you have another problem, call me. It seems to me you got your answers, Peter, but if you have disturbing dreams or something else surfaces, give me a call, come back. I feel you got what you needed.”

 

“I did. Thank you!”

 

“Hugs?” she asked, grinning, and he hugged her hard, very grateful.

 

 

 

 

He drove back to the office and made sure that he wasn’t needed for anything urgent, signed a few forms and tidied up his desk. His memories weren’t all good, but he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, from his heart. He knew he would never treat anyone as he had treated Neal.

 

He drove home and found himself singing along to an old tune: Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered. He laughed. It seemed apt!

 

El looked up as he called her name and she came through. “Hi, Hon!” she said, and he picked her off her feet and swung her round and kissed her.

        

“Hi, Hon,” he said, putting her back down.

 

“This is nice, Agent Burke!” she said, smiling.

 

“This is me, rest of my life!” he promised. He turned and petted their dog, Dizzy.

 

“Have you been drinking, Agent Burke?” she demanded, half-frowning.

 

“Of the fountain of youth!”

 

“Okay, taking AntiPoleez or eating peanut butter – hmm?”

 

“Honest, I am sober as a judge!”

 

“And on time! First time in…how long have we been together?”

 

“And hungry! And it smells delicious! I’ll open the wine!”

 

El kindly refrained from interrogation while they ate her delicious food and drank the best wine (something Mozzie had given them - in honour, Peter thought, of the daughter-of-his-spirit, Claire!) but as soon as they were ensconced on the sofa with coffee and the rest of the bottle, she turned to him and raised her eyebrows.

 

Peter was not in the least hesitant about telling her everything that had happened. She had to know. He had hurt her, confused her horribly through that nightmare summer.

 

“I went to see a hypnotist.”

 

“A hypnotist,” she repeated, her voice devoid of emotion, her eyebrows climbing higher. “You – **_you_** went to see a hypnotist.”

 

Peter smiled bashfully. “I did. She calls herself a hypnotherapist, but I’m not sure there’s any such thing!

..........“Claire. Not Claire Anything – just Claire. Reminded me of a cute, young, blonde, female Mozzie with lots more hair!” He thought a moment, “And friendlier and more compassionate. And better dressed. But perhaps just as knowledgeable, just as eerie as he could be!”

 

“You seem happier!”

 

“She helped. Despite my deep misgivings…”

 

“I can imagine! I am astounded, Hon, that you went to that sort of person!”

 

“Well, I’ve seen shrinks of all sorts of ages, disciplines and accents! I’ve spent a lot of money. I seem to have wasted weeks of my life! Nothing left to lose!”

 

“How do you even find a hypnotist? Classifieds? New Age magazines?”

 

Peter bit his lip. “I saw her card on a notice board.”

 

“Ah,” Elizabeth said, enjoying herself, “great recommendations, there!”

 

“Do you want to hear, or not?”

 

“Sorry, Hon, I’ll be good – but you have to admit it’s not like you.”

 

“El, for years there have been things about me that are nothing like me.”

 

She sobered. “Yes.” She took his hand in hers, pulled her feet up beside her and snuggled up close. “Tell me what happened.”

 

Peter told her everything. He got to the second session she’d put him through and said, “This one, I remember. She told me specifically to remember…sometimes people don’t, and I didn’t, the first one.

         “She gave me lots of little exercises, visualisations…seeing a TV turned off, turning it on, seeing a time I was happy and about ten…then turning it off. Then turning it on and seeing a time when I was happy and about five…each time getting me to describe the scene I saw in detail: smells, light, who was there, and so on.

         “That was to show me that I’m in control and if anything get’s too bad, I can shut it off”

 

El sipped her wine. “Made you feel secure.”

 

“She did. I did, all the way through. Much more than most of the other so-called experts! All a lot older and a little patronising!”

 

“So go on, tell me more.”

 

Peter seemed suddenly reluctant. El felt him swallow and take a deep breath. “She took me back to where it all started. All the problems I had with Neal. And I saw myself with Bobby.”

 

“Bobby?” asked El, in a ‘let’s-not-spook-the-wild-creature’ tone.

 

Peter sighed. “Bobby was my brother.”

 

At this, El slewed round to stare up at him. Peter stared hard at the wall with that pained, confused expression he sometimes got. “Your _brother?_ But you never mentioned a brother, Hon! I’ve never even seen a photo!”

 

“No, I know. In a way, day-to-day anyway, I’d managed to forget him completely. I didn't even mention him when Claire asked me about siblings. Didn't think of him.”

 

El took hold of her emotions. “How much older was he?”

 

“I was seven when he was born.”

 

“Oh!”

 

“He was pretty, a cute baby. Everyone who saw him said so. But you know – a baby. For me, that was pretty useless, right there. He couldn’t play ball or anything. Just lay there and cried or gurgled.”

 

“You were jealous of him?”

 

“I don’t know if that’s the right word. Yes, it might be, you know, though at seven I didn’t register that. I just thought he took up a lot of Mom’s time, much too much of Dad’s time. And that he was a useless addition to the house.

         “Perhaps girls get something out of having a baby, they can help with them, bathe them…I don’t know.”

 

El smiled to herself. Peter wasn’t good with children to this day. She waited and he went on, “The trouble was, it didn’t change. He carried on being useless.

         “He jeered at me for playing ball…well he kind of jeered at me for everything. Everyone just gave in to him. He would get me in trouble, but I never got him in trouble. If something happened, you know, a window got broken or something, I always got it in the neck. Everything was either my fault or perhaps an accident – never Bobby’s. My folks never saw it. He was smart as a whip and had this way about him. I just always ended up flat-footed, looking dumb or guilty. Or both.

         “He never grew out of ‘Bobby’. Other kids would have asked to be called Bob, or Rob or Robert. Not him. He traded on his looks, his youth and his position in the family.”

 

“You didn’t like him?” El asked, quietly, rather surprised.

 

“He wasn’t a brother, really, like in other families. Lots of my friends had brothers, and they teased each other and many got to be really close friends, too. I got on well with my friend’s brothers, on the whole.

.........“Bobby was more like some sort of malevolent spirit. I did make efforts to like him. He and I were just totally different. Dad went on at me about being supportive, understanding – once, I went to a play he was in. With my folks. Well, I guess you would call it avant-garde, if you wanted to be especially nice. Everyone seemed to be dressed in tatty nightwear, no shoes. I had no idea what it was about – have none to this day! It was called…something about Blue Wonder or something?

         “Afterwards, I had no idea what to say. Everything I thought of was trite – and a lie – or horribly rude! He was furious with me, stormed off, and my folks said I didn’t need to be so one-sided and narrow in my thinking.”

 

“Oh, Peter!”

 

“And then he over-dosed. We hadn’t cottoned on to the fact he was using! They got him to hospital, saved his life. Have you ever had an addict in the home?”

 

El shook her head.

 

“Well, before I felt as though it was 60-40. My dad had always supported my baseball, we’d gone fishing and camping and things that Bobby was too delicate for – he was allergic to everything, apparently. Or so he said.

         “But now it was 90-10. Or 95 – 5. You see, the addict isn’t addicted to the substance. The whole family is addicted. My mom had missed money before, but now that was the usual state of affairs. We had to lock all cash away.

..........“Bobby would disappear for weeks and they’d go looking for him. Drive around all night. Expected me to go with them. But I was working hard through Varsity, you know? They wanted me to put everything on hold, jeopardise everything.

...........“I spoke to some counsellors. Some said just keep loving him…well, that didn’t make sense! My folks had always loved him before! Perhaps too much! Some said kick him out of the house and don’t let him back in till he’s been through a programme and he’s clean – and even then, be careful. They told me that you can never trust them again. _Never._ Not marijuana, but the harder drugs. They’ll seem to be over it, and bam! – they’ll steal your car and vanish again. That’s not to say people don’t get clean – they do. But it is much less common than you’d think. And they really need to want to, for themselves.

............“And he was a youngster, still a kid, I felt pretty abandoned, actually. You know, not every day, but when I needed someone to talk to, to have a beer with, it was as though I was an orphan. All my parents’ time, money and energy went to Bobby.

...........“It felt as though all their love, too.”

 

“Oh, _Hon.”_

 

“It was true. He graduated from cocaine to crack with odd detours into heroin, from what I could gather, and my folks would drag him home and feed him and love him and he’d swear he’d never go back on the stuff, he’d be sweet and loving to my folks for three or four weeks…and then we’d come home and the silverware would have disappeared. Or the antique clock. And he’d be living somewhere in a dive or under a tarp with some other low-lifes in some bushes somewhere…I tell you, it was a nightmare! This went on for _years!_

 _“_ They’d get him an interview to go into a programme, or for a job, and he would go – but never turn up at the interview. If Dad tried to take him, he would have disappeared.

         “And even so, he could charm my folks, charm almost everyone. ‘It’s a disease, Peter!’ they’d say. ‘You wouldn’t blame him for having diabetes, would you?’ I just looked like the mean-hearted bad-guy, glowering off in the corner, even though he kept proving me right!”

 

“Ah.” El thought she was seeing some light, here.

 

“And then he was caught stealing. Money for drugs. I went to see him in jail. That was – wow – jail – was a shock! It really bothered me! I’d lived such a sheltered life, before. My folks were both so stressed out and – and they both had the flu at that time.

.........“I always thought my mom wouldn’t have died so early if it hadn’t been for all the stress, but I may be unfair.

         “I sat across from this thin, wasted little brother of mine and you know what he wanted from me? He wanted to know if I could score for him! He sat there, the orange prison uniform just hanging on him and when I told him a few home-truths, he just sneered at me and told me I had no idea how things were. **_Me!_**

         “He’d never worked at anything, El. Never earned a dollar. Was given pretty much anything, stole what he hadn’t been given, whined and made excuses. I lost it! I lost my temper in a big way. Like for everything he’d ever done! The guard came in and – I went home.

..........“Next morning we got the call that he’d died in a fight. Not even his fight – two other guys got fighting and he caught a shiv. And the shiv nicked an artery. Just bad luck – but he’d be alive if he had just smartened up.” Peter sighed and looked away and then added, miserably, “I never told my folks about losing my temper and not even saying good-bye.

..........“I’ve always been ashamed of that. I guess that’s why I kind of buried him, have never spoken about him. That and I was ashamed of _him._

..........“To be honest, I was relieved he was gone. Isn’t that dreadful? I never told anyone that before Claire, and now you.

..........“Oh, the family was never back to being the same. We were all older, of course, but having him in the house changed us all. The closeness was gone. As though - as though we all blamed the others, but wouldn’t speak of it. We didn’t get help – perhaps that would have made things better, I don’t know.”

 

“I see…I think I see, Hon.”

 

“Yeah. I must be as dumb and stupid as an ox, because _I_ never saw it. Guess I worked so hard not to think of Bobby at all!

         “From what Claire said, I was both attracted to Neal and repulsed by him because he reminded me of Bobby. Younger, charming, blue eyes and dark curls - in looks, Bobby took after my mother – and irresponsible. Took nothing seriously. Jibed at me. Never worked for anything. Oh, I know Neal could work and obviously _did_ work _very_ hard – you don’t get to be as good as he was at so many things by some sort of passive absorption – but I never saw it, and he never buckled down and worked for a living at a _job_ , something I could respect.”

 

“So somehow you wanted revenge?”

 

“No, in the beginning it was good, El. I wanted to catch him and give him a chance to be normal. And he had a better chance than Bobby. I wish kids could see what drugs can do. Neal never touched anything, as far as I know. Doesn’t get drunk, never took anything stronger than a headache pill, and that against Mozzie’s wishes! He might have tried out some of Mozzie’s concoctions, but Mozzie always looked out for Neal. I’ve seen Neal smoke about a third of a cigar, he _can_ smoke – guess it works for an alias. But he doesn’t, as a rule.

         “So at first I wanted to save this kid that reminded me of Bobby. Subconsciously. But of course the bits of him that were like Bobby, that damned charm, that lack of responsibility, people wanting to help him – and him expecting them to and letting them! - would rile me up and I’d go into Peter-the-officious-big-brother act.”

 

“Yeah, I saw that and it didn’t work with Neal, either! But you _were_ trying to help him, Hon.”

 

“Yeah. But I saw him in prison orange, too, and that kind of made me mad that he’d landed up there, even though _I_ put him there. He knew I was after him, he could have stopped, gone to ground! And then he wanted ‘out’ to ‘help me’ – not do his time: he charmed his way out of the consequences. But – well, I was sorry for him and I knew what could happen to him in there. He’s not the Terminator, you know, he could just as easily get caught in a fight.”

 

Peter drank his tepid coffee and made a face. “So then I was working with him and it was the same thing – he’d be great, crack a case and I’d feel like he was my best friend! And then he’d forge a painting, go into a mobster’s hangout without telling me, jump out of windows and hide in my kitchen and turn my wife – my _wife_ into an accessory – my home into his lair!”

 

“But he never stole the silverware or the clock, Hon!”

 

“No – but partly because we don’t have anything valuable!” He looked down and caught her expression. “Except each other.

...........“I know, I know –the one thing I’ve learnt about Neal, he’d never steal from family. He’s got this code of honour and if Bobby ever did, the drugs took it away.

...........“Poor Bobby.”

 

Peter was lost in his own thoughts for a few minutes, and El stayed silent, leaving him to think things through.

 

He went on, “And then…you know, I got to trust Neal. With certain reservations, but trusted him quite a lot. Every now and then we’d have a disagreement but generally it was good.

..........“And then there was the Empire State Building debacle and I ended up in prison. I know that was nothing to do with Neal. I wouldn’t have been there _but_ for Neal, but we were working together to put something very corrupt right. He blamed himself because of his father, but I knew it wasn’t him. A lot of it was circumstances, bad timing and even my stupidity!

         “Anyway, _I_ ended up in prison orange. Claire said that probably was the secondary trigger, that’s what she called it.

..........“ It scared me, El, Hon. I never said, didn’t want to tell you everything, but I loathed it. I was terrified and disgusted - and ashamed of being terrified and disgusted! I would have said I was tough and resilient, before. Neal survived four _years_ and seemed undamaged! I struggled with a few weeks!

 _..........“I_ could have been killed and never come home. I got into a couple of fights, the guards broke them up, but the looks some of the other men gave me…the hatred, the vengeance, because I put criminals behind bars for a living.

..........“And though it wasn’t Neal’s fault, I kept having to remind myself of that…if I’d never met Neal, never chased him, never caught him, never got him out, never trusted him I wouldn’t have been in that position.

...........“I would have been at the Bureau, well-thought of, coming home to my lovely wife…”

 

“…Late.” El smiled her teasing upside-down smile and he hugged her close. “And then?”

 

“Well, Hon, after that things never were quite the same, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I always felt angry, especially with Neal.

...........“I told myself, afterwards, that I was picking up clues about Neal’s theft of the gold, because I was so smart and knew him so well - but it wasn’t. It wasn’t that at all. All my antagonism and shame over Bobby and being in prison…well…it stuck to _Neal_.

...........“And, though I didn’t see this while I was with Claire, I was having real trouble trusting anyone at all, not sleeping, checking to see if I was being followed, not sharing things I learned even on a case…look at all the people in the Bureau that were crooked! Let alone my pet conman! But he was right there, all the time, supposedly under my control, but not controlled at all - for me to distrust! ‘The felon on the scene’ he once called himself.

         “And when I found out for sure he’d stolen the gold coins…God, looking back, knowing what I know now, I was yelling at _Bobby!_ Yelling and screaming at my baby brother for ruining the end of my childhood, hurting my folks, perhaps helping kill my mother…for dying in prison….”

 

“Because Neal’s actions could have put you _and_ him back in prison.”

 

“Yeah. Back in prison orange. They could have. I had to make horrible compromises because of that. And – I hate to recognise this but I couldn’t go through with going back. I can tell myself that I could do more good outside, as an agent, all that – but it scared me to think of spending any more time there. I was terrified.  It was partly cowardice that made me decide not to give myself up. There you have it!

...........“And I used to joke, tell Neal I would send him back, how good he looked in orange…I didn’t realise how mean I was being. I would have hated anyone to do that to me after I was in jail, when I was scared underneath. I didn't understand then. Makes me want to cringe inside that I did that.”

 

El cuddled up close. “There’s no shame in not being some unfeeling muscle-bound villain! You knew your brother had been killed, by accident. You know the statistics. I was just as scared for you, and was trying desperately not to throw myself at you and cry and beg you not to go back!”

 

Peter smiled a little. “I could see you were scared. And I don’t think Neal fits your description, Hon!”

 

“He’s tougher than he looks! And he didn’t have any choice.”

 

“Yeah. I wish jails and prisons didn’t have to exist! Not as they are. They should keep criminals off the streets, not put them in conditions where they are scared and in danger of bodily harm and death! What sort of society are we?

...........“Anyway, now I know – not just sort of think I know, I _know_ Neal did it all for me. And why. I know he didn’t have to.

         “Claire helped me see that they are two different men. They may have similar colouring and some similar traits, but Neal risked everything – certainly risked his life, working with Hagen who already hated him – for _me_.

.............“And he risked his life on many other cases, too. He was good to work with and we solved cases and put bad people away. I never gave him a chance, not for any length of time. I undermined him, always saw the worst because I had these Bobby-spectacles on.

............“Bobby never risked anything for anyone but Bobby. Bobby and the drugs. Not that he probably wasn’t good at heart, but he was spoilt rotten and given everything and then the drugs took him.

............“God! I just realised – I was irate with Neal for finding June’s, and that was also because Bobby could get out of anything he didn’t want to be in, and would always find someone to help him. He wouldn’t have stayed in that awful motel for a day, either! He’d have smiled at someone, opened his blue eyes wide and appealing, just like Neal. Some sucker!

...........“No wonder Neal looked so surprised and accused me of ‘sour grapes’! He hadn’t done anything wrong. He did exactly what I told him to do, and I was livid. He called it ‘upset’, but that was Neal being nice!”

 

“Yeah, Hon, I don’t think _anyone_ could call June a sucker!”

 

“No. But I thought she was being, at the time. Falling for Neal’s little-boy-lost look! He _could_ look really appealing, Hon. Nice looks, innocent-looking.”

 

“Mmm – yeah. I noticed that.”

 

“Oh, you did, did you?”

 

“I can’t imagine most females nine to ninety _not_ falling for him, his looks and charm and wit. And his good heart.”

 

“Now I’m going to get angry with him for a totally different reason!” Peter grinned.

 

“He’s not really my type.” El screwed up her pretty little nose. “I prefer socially inept good guys who need a hint placard-sized because they’re shy!”

 

“Good!”

 

“And I prefer big soft brown eyes like melted chocolate to cold blue ones.”

 

“Mmmhmm!”

 

“And I prefer to know that my beloved isn’t out climbing into sky-lights to steal a priceless painting.”

 

Peter thought a moment. “And if you’d met Neal before me? Or never met me and then met him?”

 

“Oh, well, in _that_ case…! Things _might_ have turned out differently. He’s not _that_ hideous. If one didn’t know you, that is.”

 

“Evil woman!” He tipped her chin and kissed her and she twisted round to kiss him back properly. “I can just see you, all in black, cat-burglaring with Neal Caffrey, with Mozzie driving the getaway car!”

 

“Think I’d be sexy in a skin-tight black get-up, huh, Burke? With a Queen of Swords lacy black mask, perhaps?”

 

“I wouldn’t mind doing a little role-playing some night, Mrs Burke, just to confirm my suspicions! You can break into my bedroom and steal my heart!”

 

“Only if you promise to catch me at it and take mine in trade, Agent Burke!...and perhaps help me put the ladder up to the window beforehand!” she laughed.

 

“Always ready to help a conlady in need.”

 

“Conlady, seriously?”

 

“And,” Peter went on, between kisses, “just to be clear, fair cat-burglar, I happen to think you are sexy in – or out of – any clothing whatsoever!”

 

“If this is a post-hypnotic suggestion, Hon – call Claire-No-Last-Name and tell her I’ll pay for the next session!”

 

 

 

It has to be noted that they were a responsible married couple and took the dog out for quick trip around the garden before scampering upstairs for an enthusiastic romp in the sheets.

 

 

 

 

 

Over the next three weeks, even though he was very busy with cases and catching criminals – four different crimes solved, which was nice, and solid evidence to back up the arrests – Peter was aware of how different he felt. Many things had changed, but he often felt as though Neal was sitting beside him in the car, at the desk down the aisle, he felt those mischievous blue eyes and white teeth gently mocking him. He sometimes imagined the hat sitting on his desk, and smiled. He had happy memories, now. All that anger had gone, all that weight and shame had gone – and not just about Neal.

 

Claire had helped him get his thinking and feelings straight about Bobby, too. Somehow, she’d got him to say good-bye to his little brother that he’d never really known. He felt free.

 

He couldn’t say anything in person to Bobby, but he must to Neal, sometime. Whether or not Neal understood and forgave him. They had been…cool with each other. Distant. All that trust and – yeah, call it love, at least in the privacy of his mind – that had gone. Perhaps none of it was salvageable, but he still owed it to the man who had risked so much for him to tell him why, as he now understood it.

 

_Case of mistaken identity, Neal._

 

How fitting, given Neal(et al) ’s history! Almost – _almost! -_ Just Deserts!

 

 

 

 

It was about that time that he was driving back from interviewing the family of a hit-and-run victim with some possible mob ties when he realised he was in the vicinity of Claire’s ‘business premises’. There had been no odd dreams or uneasy feelings. She had done her job admirably. He felt no need to return. But he would just like to tell her how grateful he was…

 

…but possibly she was working with someone. He knew not to disturb her. He’d try the door and if it was locked, he’d leave – just put a thank-you note under her door or in the mail-slot. He got out his note-book and made sure of his pen and drove around the block to get to the right address. He was looking for the little blue-and white house.

 

Then he saw it. Blue and white, fresh, clean-looking. Lacy white curtains at the windows. Swinging sign with the number out by the front gate. He hoped she was free, he wouldn’t mind spending a little time with her. She was well-trained and smart, and he liked smart.

 

He took the note-book and went up to the front door, opened the screen door and knocked, quite softly, so that she could ignore it if she was working. He closed the screen door, stood back and looked at the garden. It was probably very pretty in the spring and summer, gone tatty and dry-looking now, other than some coniferous bushes and a large-leaf laurel hedge down each side.

 

There was a sound at the door and it opened and an older woman looked out enquiringly.

 

Peter wondered how much he should say. “I’m wanting to speak to Claire, if she’s available. Not if she’s with someone, of course!”

 

“Claire? I think you have the wrong house.” She pushed the screen door open.

 

Peter stepped off the stair and looked back and forth. “No, this is the house. Claire, blonde hair, young. She’s a therapist?”

 

“Never been a Claire here – we’ve lived here, my husband and I more than twenty-five years, I think we’d know! What’s her last name?”

 

Peter shook his head, feeling a little silly. “I just knew her as Claire. She helped me a lot. I wanted to say thank-you.”

 

“Sorry, not this house. Try the next street over. Good luck finding her.”

 

 

Peter walked back down the little path towards his car, confounded. He got in, looked back at the innocent-looking house, the correct colour and size, the correct number of the correct street.

 

 

_If this is Thursday, she must be at Monday!_

_..................She’s **just** like Mozzie! _ he yelled in his mind, and started to laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

End.

 

Didya like it? Didya? Didya?            Seriously, now: do you think that explains Peter's hyper-sensitivity to Neal, increasing as the years went on?

Thanks to my friend 'Claire Haversham'!


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